The old Spelman’s gas station in Durand was recently knocked down. It had become another business before the building was abandoned, but, like so many things in a small town, the longtime owner’s name was what everyone remembered. That week, The Volunteer devoted most of its front page to reminiscences from a son who spent evenings pumping gas and washing windshields when he was a teenager in the fifties plus his friend who hung out there with him.
It reminded me of the many nights Dad killed time at Spelman’s when I was a high schooler. He brought me to Durand to participate in rehearsals needed for plays and choral concerts. The sessions didn’t last long enough for him to drive the five miles home and return to town to pick me up. When I celebrated my sixteenth birthday and obtained my driver’s license, I hoped to make the trip by myself, but Dad continued to be my chauffeur. He didn’t want his little girl driving alone after dark.
My father was a dairy farmer whose days began with milking the cows at five o’clock every morning and ended in the barn twelve hours later. There were probably evenings he would have preferred sitting in the living room with Mom, listening to the radio and falling asleep in his chair instead of taking me to town, but he never complained. He said he enjoyed visiting with Howard, the single fellow who worked the evening shift at the oil station.
My parents lived by the saying, “Actions speak louder than words.” Dad never said, “I love you,” but I knew I was the center of his universe. He was only 63 when he died forty-four years ago. I will always miss him.
How did your father express his love for you?